


A Stroll in the Museum

by Laure001



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: After his disastrous proposal at Huntsford, Mr. Darcy left the country for a while, and Elizabeth married another man. But she is now a widow - living in London, with an independent fortune - and try as he might, Mr. Darcy could never really forget her...Complete!





	A Stroll in the Museum

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my Jane Austen expert, InchByInch, who beta read this story, and to Zeffy, who warmly encouraged me!
> 
> For more Pride and Prejudice stories, visit my Amazon author page!
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/Laura-Moretti/e/B07B3W5Y9R/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

The subject of the museum was raised at dinner time. 

It was not a formal affair, just a relaxed meal between family and friends with the usual guests: Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, his sister Georgiana and her husband, the Viscount. The conversation was animated and friendly, the Viscount was of a very social character and brought cheerfulness and sparkling discussion wherever he was invited – Mr. Bingley was of a similar disposition, and even if Jane Bingley and Georgiana were not always as talkative, Mrs. Frank Churchill, the hostess – formerly Miss Elizabeth Bennett – was always pleasant and lively. 

Mrs. Churchill was still in half mourning clothes – but fortunately for her guests, her widowhood, and the trials that preceded, had not reduced her to a sighing, weeping creature – she had retained her ability to keep a rational conversation, joke, smile, and even laugh. 

Jane had just finished an enthusiastic description of the latest exhibition at the National Gallery, which Elizabeth had received with rapt attention. Then the Viscount began to describe the marvels he and Georgiana had seen during their latest trip in Italy – Mr. Darcy chose the moment to whisper to Elizabeth, “Mrs. Churchill, would you like to go? To the exhibition?”

“I would, very much,” was the lady’s reply – then dessert was served and her attention was back on hostess’ duties, but Mr. Darcy didn’t forget her answer, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, he said, while Elizabeth was handing him a cup of tea, “I could collect you tomorrow, at three o’clock, if you wished. The gallery won’t be so crowded then. And my new carriage is ready at last.”

Elizabeth smiled. “How long did it take them… three months, to repair that broken wheel?”

“The joys of London.”

“I know you wouldn’t set foot in Meryton again for your life, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, “but there were advantages to living in a small town. One day, I brought a shoe to be repaired, and instead of waiting two months, the man did it right there, on the spot, before my eyes. Can you imagine?”

“You’re describing utopia, Mrs. Churchill. But of Meryton, I mostly remember muddy lanes and questionable wine.” 

That was not all he remembered – but Elizabeth laughed, and they engaged in a spirited conversation of the advantages and ills of the country – nothing fascinating was said, but the fire was getting low, the other guests were happily taken in their own private worlds. He could have stayed there forever, conversing with her in this comfortable, almost intimate manner – and the fact that she had agreed, that they would be spending a part of the next day together – was a feeling that created its own tranquil glow, more warming to him than the one coming from the fireplace.

That she accepted his invitation was a testimony to the trust she had in him, and of the camaraderie, nay, the friendship that they had lately created. Elizabeth Bennet had married Frank Churchill ten years ago when she was 26 – a match of the minds, it seemed, even if Elizabeth’s dearest friends suspected that love was not, on the lady’s side at least, the primary advantage of the arrangement. But the family was in dire straits after Mr. Bennet’s sudden death. Mr. Frank Churchill was a widower, he was rich, clever, funny, and handsome enough – and when he met Elizabeth at a ball thrown by the Bingleys, the two seemed to share an understanding that laughter could accompany a profound loss. Surely the fact that the charming Miss Elizabeth Bennett, with her beautiful smile, could distract him from his own grief had played a role in Frank Churchill impulsive marital decision. And as much as Elizabeth loved her sister Jane, she could not have imposed all her life on her brother-in-law’s hospitality. Charles Bingley already supported financially a part of the Bennett family – indeed, at 26, Elizabeth chances of marrying were dwindling by the day – whatever the reasons of the future bride and groom, Frank Churchill proposed the morning after the ball, and Elizabeth accepted.

The marriage had been a happy one… at first. Frank Churchill, it appeared, had a destructive streak, and he never got over the death of his first wife. The first Mrs. Frank Churchill, Jane Fairfax that was, had been beautiful, but fragile and of a poetic disposition. She had died too young, and the truth was that all Elizabeth’s energy and joyful disposition were not enough to fight whatever melancholy now reigned in Frank Churchill’s soul. He didn’t make her life unhappy – he just wasn’t there most of the time. He traveled when he could and when he was in town he stayed late at night in disputable establishments drinking too much – again, doing nothing worse than many gentlemen of the time – Frank was always perfectly amiable towards Elizabeth – but the spouses grew further and further apart. Thus was the sad state of affairs when Frank upended the situation by becoming involved in a duel, getting shot, and then dying three months later.

That duel, proposed and accepted for nonsensical reasons, was a suicide by any other name – at least their friends thought – and it was maybe whispered in closed circles, with significant looks – but of course nobody dared mention that aloud. 

Now, Elizabeth Churchill was a widow, with a tragic and interesting story that was rendered even more interesting by the lady’s substantial fortune. It is one of societies’ absurdities that at 26, and in the bloom of her beauty, Elizabeth was almost dismissed as an uninteresting old maid – but at 36, and with one son - she was suddenly a very sought item on the marriage market. Not that she seemed in any way interested, for now at least – although she was certainly not playing the role of the inconsolable widow, and, as we mentioned, she kept her normal character and a certain equanimity during the whole process, disappointing many older ladies of her acquaintances who would have hoped for more wrenching drama to report at tea time, supplementing the cucumber sandwiches.

Mr. Darcy was, at the time of Frank Churchill’s death, already a close friend to the family. How that had happened was a mystery to him. How and why he let himself become closely associated once more with the woman who had broken his heart… it was an illogical, painful decision to make, which is why that decision had never officially been made – in fact, he had left the country for two years after her rejection, taking Georgiana with him in New York, under the pretext that a young lady had to see the world – and when he had returned to England, he found his best friend, Charles Bingley, married to Jane Bennet, despite all odds, and very happy – and Elizabeth, as the dearest sister of the bride, was always around.

And then Georgiana had married too, and it so happened than the Viscount was a childhood friend of Frank Churchill, who had wed Elizabeth almost at the same time – and they all were together twice a week at least, forming a close, sincere, affectionate circle of friends. Then Georgiana had had a son and, with the Bingley’s two daughters and Elizabeth own sweet little boy, the children formed a merry band – and of course Darcy wanted to be close to his nephew, which meant spending part of the summer at Netherfield, with the children running happily around, and in the company of all the other parents – in short, it seemed as though fate was always conspiring to put him on Elizabeth’s path again.

He resisted. Of course he resisted – she was married. It was useless suffering, seeing her receive, with pleasure, the attentions of another – although, as the years passed, Franck Churchill was present less and less, having “business” to attend which always kept him away. 

In his attempt to resist Elizabeth’s charms, Darcy even got engaged: Julia Howard was a nice suitable young woman, from a suitable family, she blushed in a suitable way at all the suitable moments, she said everything that was suitable for a woman of her standing, so he broke it off before the public announcement – he made, discreetly, a suitable financial donation in reparation, so Julia had an even more suitable dowry for her next fiancé. 

He couldn’t go through with the marriage. Yes, fate was conspiring against him. There were Elizabeth’s smiles, during those dinners he couldn’t say no to – was he going to risk offence by refusing his best friend’s invitations? Her smiles were not for him – they were for her sister, for her son, for her friends, but they were exhilarating nonetheless – it was like opium – and there was her conversation, and there was the sun in her hair at Pemberley, where he invited all the group to spend the summer – he had been at Netherfield so many times, it was time to return the invitation, to do otherwise would have been most ungentlemanly – and then when Frank Churchill’s behavior became reckless, was he going to abandon, at the very worst time, a woman who needed help or at least the hearty support of her friends?

So, yes – he had all logical, honorable motives for maintaining the connection – but over time Elizabeth’s smiles were destined to him, too. Somewhere along the way, she seemed to decide that the past was forgotten, and that certainly Mr. Darcy’s interest had long waned away, so they talked a lot, about books, music, or mostly about nothing at all. It was a pleasure to see her, to hear her. He even confided in her – little things, problems with tenants or slight worries about his sister and his nephew, nothing important – but Bingley was sometimes too optimistic to be of useful counsel, and he had no other close friends. So, somehow, Darcy found himself visiting Frank Churchills’ house twice a week during winter season, sometimes more – Elizabeth never confided in him, of course, talking to another man of your marriage’s problems, that was a faux pas she couldn’t make.

He could see the lines around her eyes becoming deeper – sometimes she was rather pale – that was all.

**

So they were friends, he guessed, when that afternoon, he stepped out of the carriage, a little before three, to enter her house. The Count of Saffridge was just stepping out, with his sister. They exchanged the usual salutations, and the others were on their way. 

Darcy went up the stairs with an unpleasant feeling. The count was single, and for years he had seemed to take gleeful advantage of that status. But now there had been some reversal of fortune, while Elizabeth, on the opposite, had inherited from another of Frank’s relatives – that was, obviously, the reason of the count sudden interest in the charming widow – “I have more money,” thought Darcy, of course money was not the measure of a man, but – he just hated the Count’s smug face. He almost thought of warning Elizabeth – surely, as a close friend, she would not take offense with some prudent advice – but then he saw her, standing in the middle of the sitting room, waiting for him – she had already her coat on. She greeted him with a beautiful, happy smile – his heart almost stopped, and he forgot his rival instantly.

“So, are you ready?” he asked.

“I am ready… to be remade a new woman, aware of the modern trends in art,” she replied. “I am ready to despise every painting from five years ago and gush about new tendencies and techniques I hardly understand.”

“The true portrait of a London lady,” he answered, offering his arm. They walked out of the room, while he added: “I don’t know if I will be so fashionable. I fear I will keep a liking for art even as old as the previous century. I am not very original – I still love Gainsborough.”

“Oh, so do I!” she cried, and they kept talking about the use of Gainsborough’s masterful brush strokes and all the different ways he depicted nature all the way to the street.

Mrs. Haversteen, Elizabeth’s companion, should have been present – but there had been a last minute misunderstanding, and Mrs. Haversteen had gone to the warehouse instead – Darcy and Elizabeth decided to go without her anyway, and on the way to Trafalgar Square, there was no tension or awkwardness; they behaved like true, easy friends, although they were alone in the carriage. It struck Darcy briefly that they were slightly pushing the bounds of propriety –– but he quickly dismissed the thought – maybe it was in his interest to do so.

The ride made him quietly happy. She was sitting across from him, beautiful despite, or maybe because of the somber colors of her attire. She seemed in a very gay mood, Darcy didn’t dare hope his company was the reason, but maybe, he thought, her widow status had begun to weigh on her after all. Despite all her friends’ affection and company, the rules of society could be very constraining for a woman who had lost her husband – and he guessed that, at that moment, Elizabeth loved feeling that she was normal again, able to spend an afternoon engaged in an ordinary pleasurable outing. So he listened, he conversed, he smiled back, enjoying the cozy haven of this short trip, almost dreading the arrival to the museum – but after he helped her off the carriage, and she contemplated the entrance of the National Gallery, he saw the light in her eyes, and was content again.

“I must admit I was looking forward to this,” she said, turning to him. “Fran… Mr. Churchill did not like to go to the museum, and, of course, I could have gone with Jane, but I… didn’t. And I love art! I suppose I am unforgivable.”

“I forgive you,” he said gallantly. “But clearly I couldn’t let this situation stand.”

“Clearly you couldn’t,” she repeated, laughingly.

“It was my duty as a gentleman to intervene, Mrs. Churchill.”

It was a pleasure walking in this beautiful building with a beautiful woman at his arm – soon they were inside, and despite the initial pretext, which had been to see the new and “shocking” tendencies, they began with the rooms with the oldest displays. Some pieces where as old as the 9th century, and soon they were walking in a world of golden icons, dangerously attractive saints with gorgeous Venetian hair, chaste Marys watching tenderly over their sons, wrapped into luxurious lapis-lazuli – they talked about the sacred and the profane, making slowly their way chronologically forward, along the centuries, the bodies were now in more natural positions, fabrics flowed more freely, faces became expressive. The conversation was dwindling down, not that they were getting tired of the marvels around them – quite the opposite. 

Museums are dangerous places. Here you are, surrounded with beauty – the drama of humanity unfolding slowly around you in its most seductive form. Love – spiritual and otherwise, passion, bravery, fear, good and evil, gentleness and cruelty, all pictured by the greatest talents humanity had to offer – you find yourself immersed in the identical, though ever-changing river of human emotion. They were both fascinated; they felt pulled out of this world – as if they were alone, together, an unending universe unfolding before their eyes; they walked slowly, her arms still in his, and – they had never been so close, he thought – sometimes, they noticed other couples, husbands and wives, mostly, strolling leisurely around them – something was happening – emotion rising, in both of them, the familiarity, the deep intimacy of the moment being felt - it was not only his imagination – they were completely silent – and the silence was making that feeling stronger – a joke, a comment, would have destroyed the ambiguity – but neither of them attempted it – he couldn’t have talked anyway, his voice would have betrayed him.

And suddenly their bond was shattered.

“Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Churchill,” said a man’s voice, on the left. They both turned to stare at the smirking face of Mr. Burnhill, one of the worst gossip of London’s society. “Oh, but I’m sorry,” he said pointedly. “Maybe I’m interrupting a very private moment?”

They suddenly both became conscious of their arms intertwined, their closeness – Elizabeth detached instantly from her companion – but it was too late.

Mr. Burnhill looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “How wonderful it must be to be independent, I’m sure. There is a painting in the next room that I’m sure you will appreciate, Mrs. Churchill. It's titled: 'The Merry Widow.'”

Elizabeth became bright red, and Darcy took a step forward – but Mr. Burnhill was already walking away – people were listening, looking right at them – if he hit the man, before so many witnesses, the incident, and by extension Elizabeth’s behaviour, would be the talk of the town. He stepped back, before turning to her. 

“Shall we go see the next room, Mrs. Churchill?” he asked, in a normal voice, to give everybody the impression that nothing had happened – she just nodded, they walked through the next doorway – and, by miracle, found themselves alone.

“As soon as we leave this place, I will send that man my second,” he whispered, his voice deep with rage.

“Please don’t – don’t – I beg of you.” Elizabeth’s voice was strained, she was slightly trembling. “Not another duel. I already lost…” She paused, and maybe willingly chose another strategy. “Please,” she repeated. “If you fight this… ugly little man? He would shout it to the rooftops – add lies – and I would have no honor left to speak of.”

Darcy stayed deep in thought for a while, then nodded – feeling at the same time furious and powerless. A moment passed before Elizabeth whispered:

“Mr. Darcy, would you mind driving me home?”

“Of course,” he answered at once.

The ride back was almost silent, but when they arrived in Grosvenor Square, he followed her inside, to the sitting room, without thinking – as he had done so many times – regretting his impulsivity only when he was inside. Of course, she would want to be left alone, after such an incident. But Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind, she invited him to sit, then declared:

“I believed I overreacted in there, Mr. Darcy, and I hope you can forgive my attitude. This man was abominable, but he cannot harm me. I was seen with you at the museum – great news indeed! If he talks, nobody will be interested, and even if they were, you’re known to be a friend of the family. This is hardly exciting gossip.”

She was right, of course. Even taking it into account that they were standing quite close when Mr. Burnhill saw them, maybe a little closer that what was appropriate for a “friend of the family,” it was hardly scandalous. 

“Now I feel bad I interrupted our visit,” she added, with a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. “I am sorry for my cowardly attitude. We should have continued, if only to prove that Mr. Burnhill doesn’t hold any power other us.”

“We will go again,” he said, distractedly.

“The worst that can happen is that people think we’re engaged,” she added, following her own trail of thought, and he answered, without thinking:

“It would be better if we were.” 

There was a silence – he realized, with dismay, what he had just said – she was watching him with a, impenetrable look – he couldn’t hold her gaze, so he stood up, paced the room, stopped near one of the smaller tables.

“How gallant of you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth finally said, with a small, tense laugh. “Should I consider this a proposal?”

“You should,” he answered, feeling very cold – this was a disaster – she would laugh it off – it was too soon after her husband’s death anyway – and, in those circumstances, she would misunderstand his intentions. He has wanted to wait, hoping that she would slowly get attached to him – if she wasn’t snatched by one of those fortune hunters before – but – now, that awful man’s insult, the situation, his own reckless mouth – he had destroyed everything, reduced his dearest hopes to ashes – moments passed, in silence, she finally answered, in a slow, careful tone:

“If I do marry again, it shall not be because the man who proposed did it through a sense of duty. I wish to make a match of affection, if ever I make one.”

Darcy looked at her with astonishment – her answer was not exactly the polite but negative response he expected – in fact, you could almost interpret it as if – his heart began to beat fast, too fast. She didn’t say anything more – she was not looking at him, and seemed to find the embroidery of the cushions worthy of her utmost attention, he hesitated – and then Mrs. Haversteen entered the room. 

She was a pleasant woman, with a good sense of humor, and Darcy liked her enough in normal circumstances – but the thought of holding a polite, mundane conversation was too much for now – he bid his adieux, and left.

**

“Is Mr. Darcy unwell?” Mrs. Haversteen asked, a little later, after tea was served. 

“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth replied. She was holding the teapot, and her hand was not entirely steady.

Mrs. Haversteen observed her for a moment.

“Are _you_ unwell, Elizabeth?” she finally asked. The two women had long passed the time of formality, and had an amiable and easy relationship.

“No – maybe – I don’t know,” Elizabeth whispered. “I need to sort my thoughts, I suppose.” She smiled politely to her companion. “So, how did the trip to the warehouse go? Any fascinating news about the price of silk?”

**

He was away from her, but tranquility was far away also. He was not sure how to interpret what had happened – or maybe nothing had happened – he should have answered her – he shouldn’t have said anything – something happened in the museum – it was all in his imagination – but her last sentence – maybe there was a possibility – his mind was burning – no, it felt like he, himself, was burning. Maybe there was hope, but he had been much happier – not happier, but calmer, when he had none – but that was a lie, because since Frank Churchill’s death, of course he had been thinking… 

_Enough._

He had to go home. He had to work – there were letters and pressing business to take care of. He had to get dressed. 

Because to add to the turmoil of his thoughts – he was going to see her again in a few hours.

**

The evening to the concert had been planned months ago. Darcy was sharing a box with Elizabeth, Bingley and his wife; Georgiana and her husband said they were unsure they could attend, and indeed, when Darcy arrived upstairs, Jane confirmed that it would be only the four of them – she was already at her seat, removing her coat. Bingley was conversing with cousins at the door, while fashionable ladies, fans in hand, were passing by in the red carpeted hall of the third level of the theatre. The musicians were still according their instruments, sounds of violins and flutes resonating in the atmosphere; Darcy would have asked where Elizabeth was, if she had arrived yet, but he didn’t dare. Jane was talking fondly about the afternoon she had spent with Georgiana. The children had so much fun at Kensington’s park, feeding the ducks – Darcy normally never tired of any subject involving his sister and his nephew, but tonight he was on edge, distracted – Jane didn’t notice, or pretended not to. 

There was a slight shift in the ambient noise – people were taking their seats. 

Jane looked over the balcony. “Elizabeth should be there. She has just stepped out to speak to Mrs. Knightley.”

Darcy followed Jane’s gaze, and indeed, there Elizabeth was, in a box on the other side of the gallery, slightly below theirs, talking to some of her late husband’s friends. He couldn’t see her face, but her recognizable silhouette sent his heart racing – it seemed that the way they had left things in Grosvenor Square, her reaction when she saw him again would provide clarity – surely he would be able to judge from her look the resolution he craved. Sensing his gaze, Elizabeth turned, their eyes met across the theater – she turned away again.

Darcy began instantly to talk to Jane, and they dutifully discussed the musicians – each of his sentences feeling forced – even kind Jane sent him a worried look… and a few moments later Elizabeth was back. 

He couldn’t look at her in the eye – he just bowed formally, without a word – her eyes were lowered also. She didn’t address him, his heart sank – so that was the answer he was looking for – the silence would have been heavy indeed, if, fortunately, Bingley had not joined them and instantly engaged his sister-in-law in easy talk – then it was time to stop talking and sit down – and the situation felt even more awkward.

Because of course Jane would sit near her husband. So Darcy and Elizabeth had to sit together – it would have been strange, and raising more questions, to consciously choose another place – Bingley and Jane would certainly have noticed – it would have been a slight to Elizabeth – so Darcy sat down at her side, silently, with a heavy soul.

What for years had been simple was now difficult. What had been natural was now strained. He could feel her tension too – her smile was artificial, she played with her shawl, she readjusted her gloves – anything not to look at him – he felt ill – the lights were extinguished, and the concert began.

The music was beautiful, deep – and so sad. Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, trying to quench the same sadness, rising in his soul, with each poignant wail of the violins – but he couldn’t. All these years lost. Their friendship, lost. He would have done anything to start over – now that it had been destroyed, he would have done anything to come back to their simple, friendly connection – even if the relationship never evolved, even if there was no hope for anything to ever change – anything but that coldness, that embarrassment that now separated them more than hatred or anger ever could – an irretrievable barrier, because innocence lost can never be regained.

He has so few people in his life. Darcy had realized that fact years ago, after a conversation with – he didn’t remember his name. There had been a dinner at a business acquaintance, the women had retreated to the drawing room, the men were joking around, drinking port – quite a lot of port. The conversation has degenerated into a string of inelegant jokes – Darcy didn’t partake, but knew better than to protest – he had realized, after a few moments, that his right-hand neighbor kept silent also. Then the man, who had quite a bit to drink too, had turned to him and said, smiling, in a low voice:

“I don’t need to joke about women’s arses. I have enough in my life.”

It was a strange affirmation and Darcy became curious.

“You have enough of… this interesting part of women’s anatomy in your existence?”

“No,” the man answered, laughing. “Or, yes, actually… But that’s not what I meant. I mean, I have enough people to love. My wife, my sons. My mother’s little sister. My friends. I don’t need to utter vulgar jokes to pretend I despise the happiness I really crave.”

It was a peculiar, and quite modern philosophy – Darcy had never heard the like – and he thought about it for some days after. Not about the “vulgar jokes” interpretation, although what the man had said sounded right – no… He thought about “having enough people to love.”

Did he? Darcy had realized at the time, with a sinking thinking, that he could count the people he really cared about on the fingers of one hand. His mother has died when he was six. His father was a good man, but distant – as fathers generally were – Mr. Darcy had never got over his wife’s death, and then he died too when his son was barely fifteen. Wickham could have been a loving brother, a strong, friendly presence in the young orphan life, but Darcy had very early learnt to mistrust him. Maybe that was it – an explanation – when you learn, very young, to be wary of one of your closest companion, you have a lot of trouble giving your trust afterwards. 

Who did he care deeply, strongly about? His sister Georgiana, of course, and her son – his dear nephew. There was also Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin – now retired from the military and managing with the same good cheer the unpleasant character of his wife and her substantial financial investments. Darcy may not have always agreed with Colonel Fitzwilliam’s choices, but his cousin was an honorable man and a true, loyal friend… and then there was Bingley, of course, with his kindness, his generosity, and happy disposition– and Jane… Jane Bingley – Elizabeth sister – Darcy had almost included her into the list. Darcy couldn’t say he _cared_ about Jane, but he admired her character greatly, and was every day thankful that Bingley had chosen her, and not a mercenary, cold woman who would have made his friend utterly miserable. How wrong had Darcy been, years ago, when he had advised Bingley against this union – but he had been wrong about so many things. 

And there you were – four persons, he cared about. And then, Elizabeth. That wasn’t even his, that wasn’t even family, but still, there she was – in his soul – and now estranged forever – the music swelled, speaking, like art in the museum, of the universality of feeling, of humanity’s silent despair – on their left there was a slight ruffle, and Darcy saw that Jane’s head now reposed slightly on her husband’s shoulder – it was discreet, even in the dark, Mrs. Bingley would always be proper – now Bingley’s right arm moved silently around his wife’s waist.  
Darcy averted his eyes. He couldn’t watch – it felt too intimate, and it was too painful. To see love, freely given and received – he threw a glance at his companion, and realized that Elizabeth was watching them too, and had tears in her eyes.

He looked away again. 

The music kept going. Minutes passed. 

Elizabeth was now duly watching the stage, her eyes dry, her face impenetrable. 

He felt foolish. Worse, he felt selfish. 

Here he had been, feeling sorry for himself, not thinking of her, and the trials she had to endure. Her pain was a revelation – that she wanted the same thing that he did – not from him, maybe, but still, she yearned for trust, affection, love – and like him, she never got them – except maybe _her_ situation was worse, because she had been married, but still had been cheated from all this somehow. Then Elizabeth moved slightly, their arms brushed, she gave Darcy a silent smile of apology, her shawl fell and she had to adjust it – and when she settled again their hands were almost touching on the edge of the balcony.

He didn’t look at her – she didn’t look at him. They both felt the tension. The thought that she had done it on purpose entered briefly Darcy’s mind, to be rejected it instantly – that hope was folly - but as the situation was, he only had to move his fingers less than an inch to take hers – and suddenly it crossed the absurd notion that he should – if they were both aching for the same thing, and he loved her – maybe happiness required only one partner to begin in love, maybe she could learn to appreciate him – maybe a marriage could be happy anyway – he would certainly be a better husband than Frank Churchill – if she moved her hand away then, well then it would be settled, once and for all – but maybe she would let him – he just had to take her hand. 

But he never did, and then came the intermission.

**

“So, Mrs. Churchill…” Mrs. Salisbury said in a low voice. “Any news you want to share with us?” 

The four ladies were standing in the hall, close to a statue, near the large marble stairs. Around them, people were conversing gaily, happy to be able to move after almost two hours of Mozart. Servants, or gallant gentlemen, had gone downstairs to fetch refreshments. 

The other women gathered closer, hoping that the conversation was going to take a more private turn – all of them except Lady Saltridge, who was listening with a look of disapproval – but then, she always looked at everybody with disapproval, especially at Elizabeth, whose irony she didn’t understand and feared, in consequence, that it was somehow always directed at her. 

Elizabeth hesitated before answering. “News? You’ve quite lost me, Mary.”

Mrs. Salisbury smiled. “We heard that you were seen in Trafalgar Square, in the company of a very attentive gentleman. So, maybe there are good news – and we’ll soon have to call you by another name?”

Mary was perhaps a little indiscreet, but she didn’t mean harm, and they were all married women after all. Elizabeth just smiled and shook her head.

“If you mean my visit to the museum with Mr. Darcy, sadly, I’m going to have to disappoint. We spoke of how early Catholicism had influenced the representation of heaven in religious works – and that is all.”

“How dull,” commented Jeanne de Fontenay, one of the many French noble women who had fled her country during the revolution – and quickly consoled themselves by making their way in London society. “Are there not other, more interesting, topics to discuss while in the company of a wealthy, single gentleman?”

Lady Saltridge frowned, but Mrs. Willard quickly intervened. “Indeed there are,” she said. “In fact, yesterday, I heard that my niece – you know, Salma’s daughter…” 

She went on for a while. Elizabeth was only half listening, she thought, with relief, that if that brief conversation was the only consequence of Mr. Burnhill’s indiscretions, she could very well live with it – but sadly, the subject was not over. A few minutes later Jeanne de Fontenay turned to Elizabeth again.

“We should have known, _ma chère_. You could never marry Fitzwilliam Darcy. You’re too… _étincelante_ … you’re like fire, Elizabeth,” she explained, with her recognizable French accent. “That man… he’s so… cold, all the time.”

“It is true – Darcy is quite the cold fish,” Mrs Salisbury confirmed, while Elizabeth felt a sudden and perhaps unwise urge to defend her friend.

“Not with me – I mean, not with his most intimate circle – he can be very affectionate,” she explained, thinking of Georgiana.

“Affectionate, really?” commented Jeanne de Fontenay. She had a glint in her eyes. “Tell us.”

Elizabeth blushed a little, answering quickly:

“I mean, with his sister.”

“Of course. With his _sister_. And we ought to believe you, I suppose?” Jeanne de Fontenay continued, smiling – it was bordering on inappropriate conversation, and sensing Elizabeth discomfort, Mrs. Salisbury tried to turn the focus away from her friend her by adding:

“Mr. Darcy may not be talkative, but he is certainly very handsome.”

“ _Tu as raison, Mary._ Those eyes,” commented Jeanne de Fontenay, who was definitely unused to English restraint yet. “And those shoulders. And sometimes, the way he looks at you…”

“Yes. He... He is indeed very attractive,” Elizabeth commented slowly. “His future wife will be very lucky.”

“He has strong arms,” Jeanne de Fontenay continued, and fortunately for every lady’s peace of mind, this time, Lady Saltridge intervened.

“I am not going to stand here listening to this shameless talk of men’s physical attributes,” she said, in a cutting voice. “Really, I am ashamed of you all. And in you, in particular, Mrs. Churchill. Do you forget you’re still wearing your mourning clothes?” 

Elizabeth blushed violently, for the second time of the day – truth was, her late husband was the farthest possible from her mind at that moment – the idea was staggering, more than Lady Saltridge’s rude reproof – she tried to answer, but couldn’t find the words – with her usual charm, Mrs. Salisbury saved the day.

“There, there, Lady Saltridge – you are perfectly right, of course, and we apologize, but soon, music will start again and we poor females will be stuck in a box in the company of our husbands – in that perspective, you must allow us some levity. And – actually – see – back to my elegant prison – my brother is coming to fetch me,” she concluded, after one of her irresistible smiles – she left at the arm of Henry Crawford, who, of course, had saluted gallantly all the ladies first. Elizabeth curtseyed, then quickly stepped away – she was too shaken – she saw Jane, went to her sister directly, and led her downstairs, in a secluded area near the marble pillars.

“Lizzie, what are you doing – the musicians will be back soon,” Jane protested – before noticing her sister’s pallor. “You are scaring me – is something wrong?”

“No – not really,” Elizabeth replied, with a tense laugh. “Or maybe – yes – maybe something is wrong with me, and has been for a long time.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Was I a bad wife, Jane? Or do I disrespect my husband now? No, I didn’t taste the punch,” she added quickly, seeing Jane’s surprise – “It’s just, a conversation we had,” and she told Jane about the previous discussion, and about Lady Saltridge’s intervention – omitting, for some reason of her own, to speak about the previous incident at the museum.

Of course Jane instantly took her sister’s side in the matter.

“Elizabeth, you said nothing wrong! Maybe the topic was indeed a little risqué, but we do not have always to be serious. And your comment seemed so very innocent. I have heard a lot worse – from respectable women – now that we are in town. Haven’t you?”

“I certainly have.”

“And… Lady Saltridge is not always very nice,” Jane added – which, coming from her, were words of the strongest censure.

“She is an awful woman,” Elizabeth confirmed, “and yes, I’m sure there is much worse being said – in this theatre, at this very moment, but I am not distraught because of Lady Saltridge’s judgment. I am distraught because of my own. To be honest…” 

She hesitated, then took a few steps, before turning to her sister again. “Jane, since Frank’s death, people have been congratulating me on my fortitude. But now I can’t help but wonder if they were not really commenting on my insensitivity.”

“Lizzie, no!” her sister protested, but Elizabeth continued:

“I do not cry myself to sleep at night, as a dutiful widow should. I don’t dream of Frank, or a least – when I do, they’re not good dreams. I do not think of him every day…” Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Maybe I don’t feel enough pain. Jeanne de Fontenay said I was ’like fire,’ and that Mr. Darcy was cold. I wonder – I really believe it’s the opposite. Maybe – maybe I didn’t grieve as I should have. Maybe I am… a cold person. Maybe I am heartless.”

“Lizzie, that’s enough,” Jane said, with an authority that maybe she didn’t have before becoming the mother of two energetic little girls. “I do not know the cause of these suppositions, but I must insist you return to rationality. Listen to me. Are you not a good, loving mother to John?” 

Elizabeth couldn’t help a smile at the mention of her son. 

“Of course, but…”

“Are you not the best of sisters? Do you not love me, and your nieces?”

“Oh, dear Jane, of course I do,” Elizabeth replied, feeling tears coming up – twice in the same evening, for a reason she couldn’t define – she had not been herself since their visit to the museum, really. “But… Jane, though... What if – heaven forbid – something happened to your husband? Would you react as I did – just continue your life, mostly unscathed – joking around, with other women, about another man’s attractiveness?”

“No,” said Jane with a slow, deep conviction, “But Lizzie, our characters are not the same, and more than that…” She paused, and put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Please forgive my impertinence, but… Were you really in love with Frank?”

Elizabeth looked at the floor for a few seconds before answering. “I cared deeply for him. I admired him. He was so… bright. So funny. So charming.” 

“So charming,” repeated Jane, with an affectionate smile.

“I could have loved him. I feel like he didn’t give me the opportunity.”

“He was a shooting star,” said Jane, in a low voice, and then she took Elizabeth’s hand. “But he’s gone now. And I will never forgive him for hurting my favorite sister,” Jane added, with a stern shake of the head. “I really want you to be as happy as I am, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth was still close to tears – she had a strange laugh.

“I’m not heartless then?” 

“You are not,” said Jane, leading her sister to the steps. “But we should really go back – the intermission has ended long ago,” she continued, “Charles and Mr. Darcy must be worried.” 

Elizabeth slowly nodded, and arm in arm, the two sisters slowly made their way back upstairs, to the men who were waiting.

**

Four days passed.

Darcy had done a lot of thinking, and maybe our heroine had too.

**

Almost every week, on Thursday, everyone found themselves at Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bingley’s large London apartment for dinner. Nobody knew how the tradition started. Maybe because Darcy had made a habit to visit on Thursday’s afternoons to help Charles with matters of business – and of course, Jane asked him to stay and eat afterwards. Darcy readily agreed, he liked the peaceful, unaffected, happy atmosphere of the meals – so then Jane regularly invited Georgiana to come along, and of course Georgiana’s husband and her children were invited too, and then it seemed absurd not to extend the invitation to Elizabeth and her son – when Elizabeth was not here, Jane always thought there was something missing to a party, and maybe she wasn’t the only one with that impression – anyway, these meals had soon become a weekly occurrence, and Darcy never missed one of them. 

It was always, for him, a happy occasion – he really looked forward to them – but today was different. He felt sick – afraid that she would not be there, afraid that she would – desperately longing to see her, and worried she would be formal and distant – but he had taken a desperate resolution – and that’s why he was struck, and not in a good way, when he realized there were not only the usual guests, but three more: Darcy’s rival the Count of Saffridge – and a couple from the country, Reverend Tilney and his wife Catherine.

Supper was animated and in other circumstances, Darcy would have enjoyed the show. The Count of Saffridge was there to impress – Elizabeth, of course, but also his hosts, and the way he had decided to achieve this goal was to brag about his title, culture and relations, and to humiliate those he found beneath him – and those the Count found beneath him on this particular evening were of course the Tilneys. A provincial couple, just arrived the previous day, from their remote parish – easy to impress and to mock – perfect to show the Saffridge lineage’s superiority, in blood, culture and manners. 

An excellent plan – if Reverend Tilney and his wife had played along. If they had been duly impressed and chastised by the fact that they didn’t belong to the country’s highest circles – but as it happened, the sentiment of their inferiority was quite lost on them. The sweet Catherine Tilney was impressed at first, and listened wide eyed to the Count’s vanity parade, but Reverend Tilney had a shrewd sense of humor and began to answer every boast of the man with dripping cold irony – the Count of Saffridge was not used to it, his designated victims never retaliated, and he was completely taken aback – it didn’t help that Catherine Tilney was laughing good naturedly at each of her husband’s jokes – _she_ was clearly not used to the mores of the city. It was in bad taste, in London, to show support or love in such an obvious way to your legal spouse – but Reverend Tilney didn’t seem to mind.

Yes, it was quite a show. Darcy was satisfied at first. Reverend Tilney was working in his favor, by ridiculing the Count, and the spectators were enjoying every word of it. It had been a long time since Darcy had seen Elizabeth smile so much – her eyes seemed to congratulate Reverend Tilney for each of his clever retorts – Georgiana’s husband the Viscount also seemed to enjoy the spectacle, maybe because he and the Count were running in the same circles, and the Viscount had been witness to the other man's cruel game too many times. Elizabeth was never going to marry Saffridge after this, Darcy thought, not because the man had been beaten in verbal combat, but because he had revealed himself to be a spiteful, snobbish, narrow kind of fellow, and Elizabeth would never choose such a man.

But strangely enough, another kind of jealousy was slowly worming his way into Darcy’s heart. 

Reverend Tilney was very much like Franck Churchill, in a way, and Elizabeth was enjoying his conversation so much. Of course the Reverend was in no way a danger – it was not about him, really, it was about that _type_ of man, that Elizabeth seemed to appreciate – and Darcy was not that type. He didn’t make her laugh. He was not sparkly, he didn’t talk a lot – he could be considered boring, he supposed. Then he corrected himself – he didn’t talk a lot in general, but he spoke a lot with her – a wave of nostalgia overpowered him – all those conversations they had together, in her cozy, calm drawing room – they had talked for hours – he missed that so much, he missed her so much – while she was right here, on his left, three seats down, he threw a glance at her – and saw that she was looking right at him.

Their eyes locked for an interminable second – they both looked away at the same time. Darcy was left contemplating his plate of cheese, his mind reeling. It was impossible not to think – not to hope – that she had exactly the same impression, at the same moment – and soon dinner was over, they were drinking tea and or port in the large, beautiful summer sitting room – at those friendly dinners, they didn’t separate the men from the women afterward – Darcy walked directly to her.

Elizabeth handed him a cup of tea. There was a silence.

“Reverend Tilney is a well-informed man,” he began.

“He is,” Elizabeth confirmed, but she was not smiling, she seemed thoughtful. There was another pause, then she turned to him and said, her eyes serious, “I’ve missed our conversations, Mr. Darcy. I hope you’ve not been avoiding Grosvenor Square these last few days.”

He could hardly speak.

“I have not,” he said, at last.

Elizabeth was not looking at him – there was a little color on her cheeks. 

“You are quite the puzzle, Mr. Darcy,” she finally commented. She turned to him, looking right into his eyes. “You are so formal sometimes. Answering in such precise, particular sentences.”

“I express my thoughts as I can, Mrs. Churchill.”

“But that sometimes leaves your friends wondering what your true feelings are.”

He couldn’t reply – he wouldn’t have known how – it was cruel, what she was doing, he thought – like she was poking him – hurting him on purpose – resentment, fueled by pain, began to rise – he turned to her, ready for an angry retort – fortunately Bingley was walking right to them. 

“We are just the right number for a dance,” he announced gaily, “well we are one lady short – our piano is excellent – who will play?”

“I will,” Elizabeth answered – she was still a little flushed, and seemed unhappy, as if something hadn’t happened the way she wished to.

“No,” countered Jane, who wanted her sister to enjoy herself, “no, I will,” but finally it was Miss Grey, the governess, who was appointed to the piano – she was very talented, and the music lively – Bingley and Jane opened the dance, Georgiana and the Viscount followed, and Reverend Tilney, who seemed in an excellent mood after his victorious dinner, had no difficulty convincing his merry young wife to join him – the Count of Saffridge finished his third glass of port, walked to Elizabeth, and offered his hand. 

“Thank you – but I cannot dance,” she answered amiably. “I am still in mourning.”

“Surely you can make an exception in a family gathering,” the Count said. “These are all your relatives – or friends.”

“They are,” said Elizabeth with her most charming smile, “but still, I am heroic, and will abstain.”

The Count bent to whisper in her ear – his breath a testament to the fact that he had quite a bit of wine during the meal in addition to the liquor afterwards – although, in his defense, his evening thus far had been very disagreeable.

“Nobody will tell.”

“And yet my answer remains the same,” Elizabeth replied, taking a small step back – Darcy was watching the proceedings – despite his ill humor, he had not moved from her side.

“Mrs. Churchill, you are quite the tease,” the Count said, raising his hand to touch Elizabeth’s shoulder – Darcy caught his wrist, interrupting his gesture. 

“It seems the lady is not inclined to dance.”

“Darcy – for God’s sake, you always play the white knight. The _lady_ just wants a little persuasion,” he added, his words almost imperceptibly slurred, and he tried to catch Elizabeth’s wrist – Darcy pushed him back this time – discreetly, but firmly.

“Count, a word?” he said, and he gestured towards the hall, “now,” he added, not even rising his voice. The count took a look around, nobody had noticed anything – he hesitated, but Darcy was not backing down.

“Very well,” he replied, in a voice that attempted to convey exasperation but was pitched just a bit too high. When they arrived in the hall, Darcy declared, as calmly as possible, “Saffridge, I fear you’ve had a little too much to drink. It would be best for you to go home.”

“I am fine,” the Count muttered; he turned towards the living room again – Darcy grabbed him by the arm.

“You were importuning Mrs. Churchill.”

“Of course not. Believe me, that Churchill woman is a player. She just wants me to…”

Darcy put his hand on the Count’s chest and pushed him two steps back – more violently that firmly, this time. 

“Do you want me to get you forcibly removed?”

The Count stumbled, and hesitated again – he was drunk enough to be inappropriate, but not enough to be unable to weigh his options. Darcy was stronger than him – in a house where the servants would be on his side – anyway it was not clever to cause a ruckus, with the woman he coveted in the next room – he shrugged, glared, cursed, and called loudly for his coat. 

Darcy watched him leave. What he had done was unwise. He had made an enemy – and to be honest the man had taken the brunt of his anger towards Elizabeth – but he didn’t care. He waited a few minutes, then walked slowly back into the sitting room.

Elizabeth was on the other side, engaged in a conversation with Georgiana, Catherine Tilney and the Viscount – but she was clearly worried, casting glances in the direction of the door – her face filled with relief and affection when she saw him back – his anger instantly evaporated. 

He walked to the fireplace, hesitating – he didn’t want to go directly to her, it would feel like he was asking for her gratitude – but she kept looking at him – her eyes beckoning him to come closer – he couldn’t resist – so he made his way to the group. Georgiana was talking, he didn’t interrupt her, just placed himself by Elizabeth side – she didn’t speak either, they both remained silent, so close, while the others were conversing – then a change of configuration gave them the opportunity to move a little apart from the others. They returned together to the fireplace, in the part of the room which served as a de facto library. 

It was dark outside, the light of the fire reflected by the window on the left. They watched the flames for a moment. Then Elizabeth turned to him.

“Mr. Darcy, I think I have to apologize, for what I said to you earlier. I was talking in jest – but clearly I... ”

“Mrs. Churchill, may I request the honor of a few minutes of your time tomorrow?” was Darcy’s only answer – in truth, he hadn’t heard a word of her apology.

Elizabeth stiffened – her emotion was clear, but what emotion exactly, he couldn’t say.

“Yes,” she replied, without looking at him. “Of course.”

“Or tonight,” he added, without thinking.

There was a silence. 

“Tonight,” she whispered. “Very well.”

**

She left first – said her adieux, ordered her carriage, she climbed in it with John and the nurse – Darcy was watching by the window, it was a beautiful night, unusual in the city, where the fumes and the dirt seemed to conspire to create a constant fog – but he couldn’t appreciate it – he asked for his horse less than half an hour later and rode discreetly to her street. Orders must have been given, because he was led instantly in the blue sitting room – where they had spent so much time conversing – where she had waited for him, in her dark grey coat, before going to the National Gallery – she was in the same position now, standing, her hand touching the edge of the sofa – though she looked as nervous as he was. The door closed behind them – he had a speech prepared – but her clear apprehension made him lose his nerve.

He walked to a nearby table, hesitated.

“Mrs. Churchill,” he started. “You know… You have to know… You could hardly be without suspicion…” She kept looking at him. “You said you wanted a match of affection, if you ever married again,” he said, finally. “And I… On my side at least…”

This was – again – a disaster. He stopped, tried to gather his thoughts.

“I would be honored if you accepted my proposal and consent to be my wife.”

It was all so inelegant – so awkward. “I see,” she answered slowly, not looking at him – she touched her forehead briefly. “Indeed - we must discuss this.” 

Not an auspicious beginning. “Thank you for your proposal,” she continued. “But it is too early. I need more time.”

Darcy looked away. “Of course. I understand. I apologize for my presumption. I will leave you alone.”

“No… No,” Elizabeth said, looking right at him. “Mr. Darcy, you misunderstand me, and God know we have had enough misunderstandings.” She walked to him, stopped a few feet away - she was pale, clearly agitated. “I am not – this is not a polite way for me to – I am not refusing your offer. I am in earnest. I just – it is now too early for me to accept it, so near to Frank’s… so near to my husband’s death.”

Darcy was frozen in place. It took him some time to comprehend what she had been saying –– anything short of a “no” was unexpected hope – but maybe he had interpreted things wrongly.

“Let’s understand each other, Mrs. Churchill,” he finally said, struggling to form the words. “You are… You might be considering my proposition… But later?”

“I have been thinking a lot about this…” Her voice trailed off, and he asked, in a tone of disbelief:

“You have?”

Elizabeth paused. Then she raised her head and looked right at him. “Of course.”

He never had been more in love with her than at that moment – a lesser woman would never have admitted it. 

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth added – she tried to smile, but couldn’t – “we are friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Then, can we be truthful with one another?”

“Yes,” he said again – torn between strong emotions – so moved that she trusted him – but “let’s talk as friends” didn’t augur anything good either – she directed him toward the sofa, and they both sat down, facing each other.

“First, please know I should have accepted your proposal, all those years ago, in Huntsford,” she began. “I made a huge mistake.” 

“You remember it?” he breathed.

She repeated, with the same clear eyes: “Of course.”

He desperately tried to keep his composure – but his voice betrayed him, “I was a fool,” he answered, “not to propose to you, but to do it in such a way. You didn’t know me. We had hardly talked – a few hours, at most, in all our acquaintance – we had our misunderstandings – and – I suppose the proposition of this strange man asking for your hand…”

His voice trailed away – it was some time before she spoke again.

“Mr Darcy, I… While we are on the subject of proposals… There is… When I was a young, thoughtless girl,” she whispered, “and I heard older women saying that their view of the world differed, now that they were married, I always laughed it off – I thought at 21, I knew everything – but truth is, my philosophy has indeed changed. I thought I wanted love, and I do, but love is not enough. I want… trust. Respect. Equality.”

She stopped – looked at him. 

“Are you are asking me if I hold the same views on marriage?” Darcy said, slowly. He shook his head. “Miss Bennett, I…”

He paused – realizing his mistake - Elizabeth had a short laugh - Darcy answered with a strained smile. 

“I apologize, _Mrs. Churchill_ ,” he said, with a short bow. “I suppose I could explain my mistake by saying this is the conversation we should have had at the time.” He paused. “All these years… Talking to you, getting to know you, sometimes I had the absurd thought – that I was doing everything right – but too late, because you were married,” he explained – before realizing the danger of his words - it was as if he was admitting that even when Elizabeth’s husband was alive, he was thinking about her in a way that – and of course he was – but some truths are better left unsaid – a wave of emotion submerged him: “We didn’t know each other the first time I proposed, Mrs. Churchill, but I do know you now. I know how kind you are, how thoughtful, how bright… and how brave,” he added – he felt his voice was betraying him, “they all compliment your cleverness,” he continued, “but I know the light, the warmth that lies beneath it…”

He stopped – he was losing control – Elizabeth could not look at him - maybe if she had, her eyes would have betrayed her too –, it was too much, Darcy thought, he was being improper, he would scare her off – moments passed.

“But I digress.” He took another pause, before being able to continue, “Rest assured that I want the same things as you do. You’ve seen me, with my… family. With my peers. With those who have been entrusted to my care. Did I ever break their trust? Did I ever treat them in a non respectful manner? Don’t you… don’t you know me now?”

“I do,” she whispered, “I do,” a new silence followed – he thought he saw fear in her eyes, for some unexplained reason, “and this is why… This is why what I am going to explain may sound so extraordinary,” she continued, yes, she looked very nervous again - he desperately wanted to comfort her – but he didn’t have the right – she paused – when she started again she was still pale, but her voice was steady. 

“The two of us have never discussed the state of my marriage to Mr. Churchill, Mr. Darcy. Never directly, at least. But you know it was not a happy one.” He nodded. “When women are trapped in such fraught relationships,” she continued, “there are generally two ways they can react. The first one is to become very unhappy… very angry… tears, reproofs... They sink into deep sorrow,” she explained, with one of those self deprecating smiles that Elizabeth used wherever she was alluding to some sad situation, as if to put a shield of irony between herself and the drama. “The other solution is to… avoid the pain… They retreat, in their mind, to protect themselves. They put a sheet of… ice around their heart, a barrier between them and the world, not to be hurt.”

There was a silence – she was looking at him, a hint of pleading in her eyes, as if she was begging him to understand – and he did.

“Yes,” he said. “Your description might be poetic, but it’s very clear.”

It was, at least to him. He had never put words on it, but that was what happened to him when he lost his mother, he thought, and in the years afterwards.

“So, this is the method that you chose,” he said slowly. “Or that came naturally.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes,” she said, and there was a hint of harshness, or pain, in her tone. “This only applied to feelings of a romantic nature, though, Mr. Darcy. Not… to the affection I had for my family and friends.”

“I understand.” They looked at each other in silence. “What you are telling me, Mrs. Churchill,” he finally continued, “is that you cannot have – to quote your own words – ‘feelings of a romantic nature.’ Not now, at least.” 

“I was speaking of the past.” She looked right at him and her cheeks coloured. “Things are changing.” 

Their eyes stayed locked for a brief moment – her blush deepened – she averted her eyes – his heart was beating so fast he could hardly hear. 

“I will wait,” he breathed, “I will wait as long as you wish. I will…” He stopped, stood up, took a few steps – if he stayed near her, he wasn’t going to be responsible for his words, or his actions – she stood up too. 

“And also, I… I should not care about the judgment of society,” she started, the shakiness of her voice betraying the apparent rationality of her words, "but I must admit, I do – I have a son, and if people thought…” She shook her head. “Mr. Darcy – I thank you - I feel so relieved that you are reacting this way. I thought that you would think I was being – insincere… that I was toying with you… that you would cease to… That I would never see you again.”

It was his turn to have a strange laugh. “If only I could. You underestimate my loyalty to you, Mrs. Churchill.”

She didn’t answer – a church bell rang somewhere, they almost jumped, a few moments passed before he managed to utter, “I suppose… I should… I have to leave you now. It is late…”

“Not that late,” she answered, her voice not entirely steady, “you can stay a few moments more, I believe.” 

It _was_ late – very late – but she seemed under the power of a strong emotion, he walked to her instantly, God knows what he would have done if she had not gestured toward the sofa – they sat back again – he couldn’t think, couldn’t see straight, she was not herself either, he took her hands, whispering, “I have loved you for fifteen years,” her eyes were lowered, but he felt her shivering in response, he put her right hand to his lips, and kissed it, once, then again, and again, “I will wait,” he repeated again, “I will,” – he didn’t control his words, it was as if he had a fever, so he kept kissing her hands, then her wrists, between her sleeves and her gloves, just where her skin was exposed - she could hardly speak – “You are right – it is getting late,” she finally stuttered, “maybe it is better if you go” – he nodded, stood up, she did too, they stayed there, facing one another, for a few moments. Then suddenly he reached out and caressed her cheek while moving quite close to her, he placed his other hand on her shoulder – for a second she was frozen - he leaned even closer and kissed her – she instantly recoiled.

“Mr. Darcy!” she cried – he apologized instantly.

“I am so sorry – Mrs. Churchill – I…”

“We are not engaged, sir,” she cried, “and even if we were… You are in my house, at midnight, and…”

“I don’t know what came over me. Pray accept my apologies.”

“I have to…” Elizabeth walked to the bell and rang for a servant; Mr. Darcy was still apologizing, she turned to him while he was saying, “Forgive me. You have given me cause to hope, and I will not transgress in the future, I swear. ”

She tried to smile – but stayed safely near the bell, separated from him by a good ten feet. “Mr. Darcy, I have… I fully appreciate our situation and I realize I share a portion of blame. But… We must not give Mr. Burnhill anything to crow about – you do understand?”

“Of course,” Mr. Darcy replied, “Again, I am so sorry.” The door opened, the servant appeared, Elizabeth said, with as steady a voice as she could muster:

“Good evening, Martha – sorry to be bothering you so late – could you ask Mrs. Haversteen to come down, please?” She saw the surprise on the woman’s face and added quickly, “I know she might be asleep, but I… I have an urgent matter to discuss with her.”

The servant nodded and left. Mr. Darcy shook his head. “None of this is necessary, Mrs. Churchill. I am leaving.” 

“No, it’s better if Mrs. Haversteen… I have to avoid unnecessary gossip,” she tried to explain, Darcy nodded, walked to the door, looked at her for a few moments – bowed, and left her alone.

Elizabeth remained where she was – it would take Mrs. Haversteen a few minutes to get dressed – she would need all of that time to compose herself – the state she was in – her mind in disarray – she was flushed, her heart beating wildly, her hands wouldn’t stay steady – not since he had kissed them and…

And then, Elizabeth paused. Because she suddenly realized – precisely – the state she was in. 

Her mind in disarray. Her face hot. Her hands unsteady, her heart going wild. 

That had not happened to her since…

That had never happened.

She stayed immobile, breathing slowly, trying to regain a calm countenance, then she put her fingers to her lips – and smiled.

  

  

  

 


End file.
